“Where do you go when you die while still living?” I had dramatically scribbled this into the Moleskine notebook my Mom dropped off at the nurse's station. I wrote about everything. What I ate, what Comstock was wearing, how I felt, the temperature outside (even though we weren’t allowed outside). Everything. I was dying, although I didn’t yet know it at the time.
With his two eye-teeth being the only ones left in his ever flashy smile, Comstock leaned into my space on the couch in the rec room. “What’s it called? Your writing. What’s the book called?” Things I’ve learned from Comstock, I replied slyly, returning his smile. Comstock, an older Black man with grey dreadlocked hair, smooth skin, and an even smoother style, nodded in approval. While eyeing the oversized Dunkin Donuts coffee cup I held. He coveted such things. The cup, not the coffee. The coffee was decaf and trash. The cup was from a visitation with my boyfriend. He must have forgotten my distaste for corporate coffee drenched in sugar.
Maybe he was nervous. Visiting me in such a place. Just a couple of days before Christmas. What did he think while on the Subway to the hospital? Did he debate between flowers or donuts? Did flowers feel too sympathetic for my situation? Was it too kind to wish someone well in my position? Were flowers too optimistic? Or was Dunkin…
